


Oh, John, I am Real!

by LaBelleetlaloup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grieving John, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelleetlaloup/pseuds/LaBelleetlaloup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was dead. He wasn't coming back. So when John starts seeing Sherlock in the flat again, he just resigns himself to madness. At least he got Sherlock back in any form before he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, John, I am Real!

John was sitting in his usual chair when Sherlock returned from his three year absence. Sherlock had expected to be attacked when he arrived. He deduced that John would be disbelieving for a while and then would hit and curse him. However, John simply looked up, sighed heavily and buried his head in his hands. Sherlock settled on the couch, letting John have a minute. However, there was no outburst. John simply looked up after a minute and stood, murmuring something about tea as he went into the kitchen.

“I knew I was losing it,” Sherlock heard him mutter from the kitchen. Sherlock was trying to understand John’s reaction, but was completely failing.

“John?” he spoke, hoping to get a reaction out. There was a pause and a choked sob.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John’s voice was hoarse.

“How have you been?” Sherlock chanced the question, hoping to get an answer. John puttered back into the living room, leaving the kettle on.

“I’ve been bloody awful, you bastard,” John huffed a weak laugh. “You’re always such an idiot.”

“I am not an idiot!” Sherlock protested. It was only later he realized that he had no idea why John had so easily accepted his presence. John grumbled about his messes and shook his head at Sherlock’s sulks. It took a while to realize that John purposely avoided going out with Sherlock.

 

“John, how about Angelo’s tonight?” Sherlock suggested, whirling around the room, “I solved the case!” He had not noticed yet that John had not gone to any of the case with him.

“No, Sherlock,” John’s voice was calm but his eyes were still sad, “Let’s just get takeaway.” Sherlock agreed, too euphoric to argue. Once the food arrived, John paid without a word to Sherlock about the expense and settled in to eat. Sherlock was still off whirling and John was trying not to cry as he ate. He gave up half-way through the meal and left everything on the table as he trudged up to his room, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock stared at John, his euphoria leaving him. He was unsure as to what the problem was. Then he looked at the food left on the table. John had only ordered enough food for himself. Before… John would have ordered more than plenty food for two and insisted Sherlock eat. Sherlock was now certain something was wrong, but what?

 

“John!” he was beating on his door at six in the morning. Normally John would yell at him about disturbing Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock, I’m up,” he merely replied, opening the door and waiting.

“There’s a case!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Hurry up!”

“I have work, Sherlock,” John shrugged, ambling into the bathroom. Sherlock glared at the closed door, before shrugging it off and running out the door to the scene of the crime.

 

A few days into the case and John had not taken off work once to help, Sherlock was suspicious again. It was quickly forgotten as he took off on a lead without bothering to tell Lestrade and ended up back at the flat. He had turned his phone off. John was back from work, reading the paper. Suddenly, John’s phone rang. John answered with a shrug.

“Yeah, Greg?” he answered. Then he spluttered for a moment. “What?” There was another pause as his anger grew, “What kind of sick joke is this? Sherlock’s dead!” John hung up and threw the phone across the room, his anger melting into sobs.

“John?” Sherlock turned from his thoughts to his friend, crossing the room and kneeling at John’s feet, “I’m not dead.”

“I saw you die, Sherlock,” John’s eyes were still filled with tears as he looked down at him. Sherlock knew then. John did not cry in front of others. Ever. John believed Sherlock was some kind of hallucination. That was why he had never agreed to go anywhere with Sherlock and had not took off work for cases.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, “I’m so sorry. I knew something was wrong.” John was crying into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I should have realized sooner. I was never dead, John. I had to go kill off the rest of Moriarty’s web and the only way to keep you safe was to have you believe me dead.”

“Sherlock,” John choked back another sob.

“I am so sorry, my only friend. I should never have done this to you.” Sherlock was still whispering in John’s ear, “I never meant to be so convincing. No one should be so clever.”

“You are,” John managed to stutter out, “You’ll always be so clever.”

“John!” Sherlock tightened his arms as John fell out of his chair, into Sherlock’s lap, “My poor blogger.”

“Sherlock,” John was still crying, “I should have told you I loved you then. Maybe then I wouldn’t be hallucinating now.” Sherlock was now crying too.

“I’m not a hallucination, John,” he insisted through his tears, “I’m real.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was fond, if weak with tears, “You’re dead. The dead can’t come back to life. You’re decomposing for the worms.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “I’m right here. I’m real, John. I promise.” Neither noticed the door opening. Lestrade stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching them cry together and argue over whether Sherlock was real.

“John,” Lestrade spoke and John scrambled to his feet, brushing his tears away from wide eyes.

“Get out,” John snarled, “That wasn’t funny.”

“He’s not a hallucination, John,” Lestrade smiled, “Unless we’re all hallucinating. I’ve seen him, Molly’s seen him, even Donovan and Anderson have seen him. Sherlock’s real, John. He’s back.” John turned slightly, as though to look at Sherlock, who was smiling weakly at Lestrade as he stood and taking John in his arms again.  
“Really?” John was melting into Sherlock’s arms. Lestrade nodded.

“Not a joke,” he assured him, “I’m telling the truth. Now when you two are done, I need Sherlock to call me.” John did not even hear the Detective Inspector, turning around and throwing himself at Sherlock, who easily caught him as they fell into John’s chair, embracing and crying. This time they were tears of joy.

“A thousand apologies would not make up for what I’ve done to you,” Sherlock murmured, nodding his thanks at Lestrade, who turned and left.

“No,” John agreed, “It really wouldn’t. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I only came back after all of Moriarty’s web was gone: either imprisoned or dead,” Sherlock chuckled, “Usually dead. He had standing orders for you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to be shot if I was not dead. So, I thought the best way was for you all to believe me dead.”

“Bastard,” John breathed into Sherlock’s shoulder, clinging to him.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” Sherlock murmured, running his fingers absently through John’s hair.

“What I said?” John replied, trying to figure out what Sherlock meant.

“That you love me,” Sherlock was almost smiling at the idea. John blushed, pushing away from Sherlock.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were a figment of my imagination,” John stumbled over his words, “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

“Too bad,” Sherlock shrugged, “Because I love you, and I mean it the way it came out.” John’s eyes shot up to Sherlock’s face. “Did you really think I would waste three years of my life chasing down common criminals for just anyone?”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft as if he dared not hope that he understood his long-lost friend correctly.

“John, I am in love with you,” Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly, “There is no other way to say it. I died every day I spent away from you and the only thing that kept me from giving up was the thought of you waiting on me. I knew I ought not to hope you were really waiting on me, but it was my dream all those long nights away from you.”

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John laughed, “I always have. Of course I was waiting on you.” Sherlock bent his head and they were kissing. The unfeeling sociopath and his heterosexual friend both let their guards fall down, knowing the pain of being separated was not worth avoiding the knowing looks and snide comments they had already been getting before.


End file.
